The Club and the Ring

Memories are funny. Traumatic events in life are often seared into the core of our memories. 

Traumatic memories affect different people differently, but I suppose no matter who you are they resurface both when intentionally recalled and when unintentionally triggered. Today, I’m going to intentionally recall one for this blog. But to be fair this memory surprised me a couple days ago after laying dormant for probably over a decade.

So often these seared-in memories are experienced, for me anyway, in snippets. They are usually immediately re-filed unless they arise in conversation. Even then, the whole memory is not explored - only the essence needed for the topic of conversation. This time I’m going to try to remember it and reveal it in its entirety.

This story starts with an eleven year old me and a seven year old brother.

We attended a small private school at that time. Every school day we would walk to a neighborhood intersection to catch a ride to school. We didn’t catch a bus, but one of the teachers lived nearby so we walked to meet him on the corner. It was on his way to the school. It was a good and convenient arrangement.

On our walk we would often find treasures to bring home. On one particular day we came upon a pine root about three feet long. It tapered on one end and had a knob at the top. It looked like walking cane the aging Bilbo Baggins might have used. The knob end had clearly been pulled from the ground as it had a few sharp points on it.

As boys did at the time, a game of war broke out in the neighborhood one afternoon. Whether it was “Cowboys & Indians” or “Germans & Americans” I can no longer recall. Of course in the game no one ever admits to being killed and everyone claims their shots were true. As one boy rounded the corner of the house I “shot” at him and he “shot” at me with our imaginary guns. “Bang, bang! you’re dead!” “No I’m not! You missed! I shot you first!”

My little brother, unbeknownst to me, stood behind me intent to join the fray - though clearly not invited to play with the “big boys.” I heard from behind me, “I got him!” Then everything went black.

Next moment I recall, I am sitting on the front porch with mom holding the back of my head. The pine root had become Cain’s club - though wielded without malice or jealousy.

In today’s world a trip to the hospital would be the standard procedure - but money was tight. So, my parents took me to the kitchen table and Dad put two stitches in the back of my head. My parents monitored me to assure I wasn’t vomiting or getting sleepy.

Days passed and I healed and all that remains now is a memory and a small divot in the back of my head hidden by hair.

Returning to the car stop awaiting a ride for school some weeks later I discovered another treasure. It was a metal ring about three or four inches across. I played with it in my hand. I shared my find with my brother and he returned it to me. We eventually arrived at the stop and I became bored with the ring. I asked my brother, “You want this?” “No”, he replied. I then tossed it across the road. “Wait! I want it!” “I asked. If you wanted it - go get it if you want it.”

Now, it was a road, but it wasn’t a busy road. It was a typical suburban housing road with light but occasional 25 mph traffic. Looking both ways my brother crossed and after a little searching found the ring. He prepared to return across the road. He looked right then left. He had to wait on two cars. He then looked left and waited on another car. Then he darted across the road and was hit by a car coming from the right.

He flew into the air and bounced twice on the graveled pavement. I fell my knees and screamed, “God! No!”  It was not a request. I confess it was a command. I then got up and went to my brother lying unconscious on the road. In my mind I needed to move him out of the road so he didn’t get hit again.

Fortunately, some of the neighbors stopped me, covered my brother with a blanket, called an ambulance, and sent me to inform my mom. I ran home. 

For some reason I went to the front door and knocked. I told mom and she stood there in disbelief and said, “No! no?!??” And she froze. After a moment I said, “You can stay, but I’m going back.” Then I turned to leave. At which point she said, “Wait! I’m coming.” We both ran to the stop. In the process, I too, ran out in front of a car and placed my hand on the hood as I crossed the street. It was barely moving but I had failed to pay attention.

Eventually, the ambulance arrived. There was a lot of people milling about and talking while they loaded up my brother. Somehow I was permitted to ride in the back of the ambulance and talked with the paramedics as they stabilized him. There remain only visual memories of that.

Much is a blur after that. There were days and weeks at the hospital. There were cancelled summer plans. There were weeks of recovery for him at home. There were interviews with insurance companies or lawyers or something.There was a wedding where he limped down the aisle as a ring bearer several months later.

A club and a ring. They are tied together because of their proximity in time and place. They were also the source of teasing. “You tried to club me to death. I just played ring toss.”

It wasn’t the only traumatic event in my life - but it was the first.  In the end we recovered. We still remember. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes not. It remains part of me - no matter what. And you know, I still find treasures.

American Revolution - The Elephant in the Room

 

The Elephant in the Room

Elephants have a large footprint in idioms and popular culture.  They never forget. They turn pink when we have too much to drink. Though massive, they're said to fear tiny mice. When white, they show up as gifts that no one wants. They lead stampedes in Southeastern Conference football. They fly with their ears in Disney books and movies. They are symbols of political determination in the form of the American Republican party. They hang out in refrigerators for children's jokes. And they must be pointed out when in a room because even when everyone sees them, no one wants to talk about them.

On 7 June 1776, just days shy of 250 years ago Richard Henry Lee did exactly that. If the name Lee seems familiar to you, it should. He was a first cousin to Henry "Lighthorse Harry" Lee who was a successful officer of the American Revolution - famous for his contributions to the cause in his nighttime surprise attack in August of 1779 at the Battle of Paulus Hook, He was also a first cousin to Robert E. Lee who is famous for leading the Confederate forces in the American Civil War.  And, George Washington's niece married Richard Lee's son. If you believe the paper trail, I'm a fifth cousin to Richard Lee by way of a shared ancestor, Peter Stanley, (my 14th GGF).

Richard was deeply involved in colonial politics.  He was in the House of Burgesses from 1758 until it was dissolved.  He was a delegate to the First Continental Congress.  After the nation was formed, he was President of the Congress from 1784 to 1785 - and so, technically was a President of the United States before we started counting Presidents. He later served as a U.S. Senator from 1789 to 1792. 

But, in 1776, Richard's defining moment arrived. He stood, acknowledging the elephant in the room, declaring,  

"...these united colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown; and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved."

From those words came the momentum that produced the Declaration of Independence and a war for independence that followed. To borrow another idiom - "The die was cast!"

Ironically, it was during Robert E. Lee's struggle, nearly ninety years later, that the quest for "free and independent states" was lost.  In the Spring of 1865 - the Confederacy surrendered not only its armies but the claim that states could remain fully sovereign with the Union born of the Revolution. 

Also ironic is, while Richard pointed out the elephant that was the quest for independence, he, along with many planters of that era ignored another elephant. A significant portion of the population were not made free. That unacknowledged contradiction - between the ideals of the Declaration of Independence and the reality of slavery - became a wound that festered, split the nation, and continues to affect its future strength and unity. 

We ignore an obvious problem because the consequences of addressing it seem to be greater than the consequences of letting the elephant linger in the room. The consequence of Richard pointing out the elephant was a world war - but the reward was a new nation. The consequence of ignoring the elephant of slavery was a civil war and continued pain.

Choices always produce consequences. 

Occupational Hazard - So, What Do You Do?

 

Great Grandfather - Redmond Rose in his Blacksmith Shop

"So, what do you do?" That is a question so often asked by one American to another.  It is the question that for many cultures is considered rude. Maybe its because it seems to try to put people into social classes. Maybe because for them work is not as closely tied to identity.

But, for Americans it is a very natural small talk opening.  It is a way to seek connection. The conversation might go something like this:

A: "So, what do you do?"

B: "I'm a teacher.  I've been a public-school teacher for 20 years."

A: "Wow! My brother is a teacher in Alabama. He teaches High School Science. What about you?"

And so on. This is all done - usually without judgement or with any intent to establish pecking order. Though, social ordering happens in this way, too, in some circles.

For Americans it is natural to ask - what did my ancestors do for an occupation?

As I looked along my family lines I, like many find farmers.  Some were small local farmers growing and raising enough for sustenance and community exchange while others were truly farming as a business venture.

In the late 18th and early 19th century a few of my ancestors stood out for doing things other than farming.  A direct paternal ancestor, Malcolm, was, in addition to farming, a militiaman and scout on the western frontier. His son, Sylvester, began as guard/bailiff, but his experience led him to the legal profession becoming a Justice of the Peace and ultimately a Probate Judge. He also was a tutor at times.

Another interesting profession during that time period was a second great-grandfather, Philip Blume, who was a saddler - first in his role during the War of 1812 and later as a profession. It is also possible that he dipped into investing into hospitality (Blume Hotel) and coal mining in his later years as his children were directly involved in the activities. Philip's mother, Elizabeth, mentions that her son, Jacob, "received the wine of life" indicating the good things were happening for him - and this is the time that the coal business was taking off for Jacob with his future brother-in-law.

One fourth great-grandfather, Timothy Bates, would have current conservative Christian fellowships spinning their heads. He came with his father, Ephriam, to Ohio because of a combination of opportunity and abolitionists beliefs developed under the influence of Jacob Green. Pioneers on the frontier and religiously zealous - Timothy preached on Sundays at a Christian Church that often met on his farm in his distillery using the whiskey barrels as benches.

Moving further into the 19th century my family followed the rivers. Monroe McCown was very entrepreneurial.  He was a lay Methodist minister, a fruit farmer, blacksmith, steamboat clerk and possibly pilot. His wife, Henrietta, owned a good bit of property in the main town and in the countryside - where she may have rented out property for others to farm. In her younger years she had been a seamstress and may have continued that activity as the opportunity arose. Their son, Sylvester, was similarly entrepreneurial.  Like his father, he apprenticed in blacksmithing, managed a fruit farm in Ohio, and he speculated on timber in Louisiana and Arkansas.

One second great-grandfather never came to America.  Zacharias Anderson, born in 1836 to a tenant farmer living in a backstuga in Naverstad, Sweden. He eventually moved to Grebbestad near the coast where he first tried cobbling - but changed his primary occupation to strandfiskare or beach fishing which consisted of cast net fishing, small boat usage, and fishing from the shore. When Zacharais' son, Oscar, came to the U.S. he would lean on those things he had learned from his father occupying himself as a boat captain, fisherman, bridge builder, and general construction contractor. I could see echoes of this fishing legacy while growing up in the panhandle of Florida where my grandmother and aunt, (Zacharias' grandchildren) would scoop crabs, gig flounder, and uncles would cast nets for mullet. Even today, I can't visit an Aquarium without getting hungry.

At the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries, two ancestors on opposite sides of the family tree set up general goods and sundry stores.

One, Robert Wylie, operated on the old routes - the rivers, specifically the Ohio. The other, William Ira Goad, operated on the new routes - the rail roads, along the L&N specifically in Repton, AL William's son-in-law, Alva Otto Huckaby, was a carpenter along the L&N and followed it south into Florida.

Fully into the 20th century both of my grandfathers were eventually employed by the federal government.  Before that, Herbert McCown, managed a small farm, worked in his cousin's coal mine, and traveled with a timber company. The government job allowed him to stay near the farm as he obtained a job with the Army Corp of Engineers with the hydroelectric dam operations on the Ohio. His wife, Nellie, with her love of books was a librarian. Ira Huckaby eventually worked for the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, first as a carpenter then as an estimator for the Public Works Department. Before that he was driving a taxi.

Dad farmed as a teen and worked in a jewelry store. But he quickly joined the Navy, He didn't stay in long.  He did, though, learn a skill and used it to get a contracting job with the USAF as an electronic technician, He used that skill for most of his career.  He later earned a college degree and retired as a computer specialist. 

As for me, my first official job was as an appliance installer for a small appliance store.  As I was going to college, I worked in the Couty School Art Department doing whatever needed to be done for the program administrator. After earning a degree, I began working for the USAF in software maintenance and weapon system analysis activities.

"What do you do?" is not the same as "Who are you?" or at least it shouldn't be. And yet, it gives a window into the skills a person possessed and the nature of life they experienced. Exploring the occupations of these ancestors works much the same for opening a window into their lives for those who inquire.

American Revolution - Artful Recollections of Burgesses of Yore

Artwork from the 80s

While I was attending college I had the good fortune of having a college in my hometown and a job that permitted me to work part time.  The advantage of this is that I had no school loans when I finished school.  The job I had was working in the Art Department for the local school board district. My boss's name was Mary Jo Burgess. 

The teachers gave me a shirt I still have, and don't recall if I ever wore. I also collected a few handmade gifts each Christmas that I worked there - as that was a requirement of the gift exchange. The brown vase, I encountered at an auction in the 2000s - and I immediately recognized it by the signature on the bottom - as it was the same signature as the silkscreened owl I had received one year as a gift from one of the teachers.

How a guy who was addicted to playing sports and otherwise focused on math and science wound up working for the Art Department is a story in itself. Nonetheless it exposed me to a way of thinking and an area of interest that I would have neglected otherwise. 

I thought of Ms. Burgess this week as I read an article about the 250th Anniversary of the disbanding of the House of Burgesses in the Virginia Colony. Seeing the article - I began to wonder.  "Didn't I see that some of my ancestors were members of the House of Burgesses?" "Were they there on the day it disbanded or at events leading up to its final meeting?"

The House of Burgesses had formed in the earliest days of Jamestown in 1619 as an early self-governing body under the Virginia Company. It transitioned to being under the control of the British Crown in 1624; but by the 1640s the Burgesses were in charge of taxation and local laws. After Bacon’s Rebellion, the Crown increasingly tried to restrain the Burgesses’ power; however, the assembly continued to expand its authority and became the dominant political institution in Virginia. Consequently, Governor John Murray fourth Earl of Dunmore dissolved the assembly in May of 1774. Even so, some members continued meeting informally and sporadically until it completely disbanded on the sixth of May two years later.

The ancestor that I was recalling that had been a member of the House of Burgesses was an eighth great-grandfather, Christopher Robinson. He had been a member of the House of Burgesses from 1685 to 1693 during its time of increasing autonomy. Christopher's son and my seventh great-grandfather, John Robinson, was also a member of the House of Burgesses in 1711 and 1714.

John's father-in-law, and also my eighth great-grandfather, Robert Beverley, was also a member and clerk of the House of Burgesses. Robert was active in commanding Governor Berkeley's forces in defense against Nathaniel Bacon and his rebellion. However, when British commissioners arrived, he sided with the Burgesses against the King's representatives. He was blamed by King James II for disruption in the Colonies.

William Robinson, was my sixth great-grandfather in that lineage - but there is no evidence that he served in the House of Burgesses - though he, too, was active in the civic community. His brother (and therefore my uncle), John Robinson, did serve in the House of Burgesses from 1728 until his death in 1766. So, the family was a participant in the tradition from close to its beginning to near its waning days.

These Robinson, I came to discover after tracking down the name and true identity of my third great-grandmother, Sarah Jane Robinson. She was originally just a name on a slip of paper that my grandfather had written down for my dad. The original note said 'Robertson' instead of 'Robinson' - but it was enough to go on to track down documents that showed her actual name and lineage.

 

Well, this little diversion peregrinated from artful recollections to name associations, then brought us through some civic-minded family. In doing so it brings me to a question. Has the art of civic responsibility faded, or is it simply aimed at different civic challenges?

Genealogy - Going South

Grandparent's Camper

One of my favorite things to do with my grandparents was camping.  They loved to camp.  They traveled all over the country both before and after my grandfather retired. For the most part, I would camp with them at Fort Pickens State (and later National) Park. However, a few times we traveled with them to Tennessee and Kentucky.  Along the way we would stay over a night or two in a State or National Park. 

One year we stayed in a campground that was on Duck River in Tennessee. I struggle to remember the name of the park, but with a little research a likely candidate is Henry Horton State Park. While I was staying at this park I went on a nature trail walk with my dad and "Pawpaw". Dad was always the adventurous explorer when it came to the outdoors. He wanted to go down from the trail to the river - but the spur off the trail was steep. He told me to wait - which I did.

Pawpaw began following my dad a bit behind him, then he turned around.  No doubt it was to remind me to stay where I was, but I interpreted it as "come on." And so, I did!  

Flatlander that I was, I was soon racing toward the river at top speed - right past Pawpaw and then right past Dad - through the poison ivy that Dad was investigating and face first onto the rock ledge as the edge of the river. The air was knocked out of me, I may have very briefly lost consciousness, and my tennis ball I was holding went floating down the river. The first thing I said was, "Dad, go get my ball!" Wisely, he refused. He and Pawpaw got me back up the bank to get checked out and cleaned up. Amazingly, I had no itchy consequences of poison ivy.

Only years later did I realize that the trail I tumbled down was part of a much older path that one part of my family had been following for more than two centuries.

The genealogical trail is certain from Duck River to the Gulf shores of Pensacola. The trail to Duck River from the Old World through Maryland is probable - but not fully proven. The remainder of this article will travel that story through a few different surnames.

The story begins with Samuel Lane, who in 1664 two years after he had been ejected as the Vicar of Long Houghton, Northumberland (England) he immigrated to the Maryland Colony paying his own fare. He inherits a place called Brawsley Hall and acquires other properties in what became Anne Arundel County, Maryland and specifically, Harwood. He was "a gentleman, chirurgeon, doctor, doctor of physics, Commissioner of Anne Arundel County, justice of peace, gentlemen of the quorum and military major." In 1682, though, he died in skirmishes associated with Lord Baltimore's Wars.

Samuel's granddaughter, Elizabeth Lane, married David Weems.  David was originally from Wemyss, Fife, Scotland, but immigrated to Mashes Seat in Anne Arundel County, MD in the early 1700s. David was the owner (or part owner) of a Privateer Schooner, Williamanta and a Sloop, Washington. During the American Revolution ships like these would protect coastal plantations from British raids, attack British ships, and disrupt British supply lines in the Chesapeake Bay.

David's grandson, John Weems, is believed to have been born in Mashes Seat but had already moved to Orange County, North Carolina near Hillsborough by the mid-1760s before the Revolution. At the age of twenty-two he purchased nearly four-hundred acres of land, suggesting he had substantial financial resources or backing. In 1790 he sold that property and invested in land on Lick Creek near Bulls Gap in what would become Greene County, TN (36°12'35.67"N,  83° 2'36.77"W). John's son, William, would move to Maury County, TN sometime between 1805 and 1811. This is where we first encounter Duck River as it runs directly through Maury County.

William had four children. One died unmarried. Two went to Chickasaw Territory in Mississippi to encounter misfortune. One was witness to a murder and the other was the wife of the victim.  The third, my ancestor - Catherine Weems Tombs, stayed in Maury County where the family continued farming. There they witnessed the Battle of Columbia and the Reconstruction Era that followed the Civil War. 

With Reconstruction came the expansion of the railway in the American south.  Migration that had followed waterways, like Duck River, were now following the tracks as they were being laid. 

Catherine's grandson was William Ira Goad, Catherine probably influenced her daughter to name after her brother who had seen such misfortune in Mississippi. William tried to farm for a while but gave it up sometime after 1880 and began working as a Railroad laborer.  He followed the railroad south to Repton, AL in the first ten years of the 20th Century. He then settled there and opened and operated a supply store. By 1920 the store was gone and he had moved to live in Childress, TX. 

His daughter, Susie May Goad Huckaby, married a railroad carpenter, A.O. Huckaby, in Wayne, TN. They followed the L&N Railroad with her father to Repton and then on to Pensacola. There they remained.

Their son, Ira, turned around to tell me to stay right where I was - but I, like those before me kept coming.

Genealogy - Native Interactions

 

   

Florida Beach with Tourist & Condos

Florida’s population has grown nearly five‑fold in my lifetime. In a state defined by newcomers, simply saying you’re a Florida native sets you apart. When I consider that my grandmother was a Florida native — born into a Florida that scarcely resembles the one we know today — that lineage places me in a very small circle indeed. I fully qualified for the "FLORIDA NATIVE" bumper sticker!

Now, in Florida we love tourists because they bring in tax revenue — which helps ensure we don’t pay a state income tax. But we’re often annoyed at the traffic they bring, and we certainly feel the loss of those miles and miles of open beaches and free parking we enjoyed before the population exploded.

I claim to be a native of Florida because my family has been here since the 1880s. Similarly, I claim to be a native American (with a lowercase "n") because a good portion of my family has been here since the founding of Jamestown and Plymouth. But, of course, there were natives here before that who were capitalizing, lamenting, and resisting our arrival.

Growth and change always create resistance and friction. The winners see the change coming and capitalize on it. The survivors adjust to it. The losers resist it. The same dynamic played out as the United States evolved from a vast open hunting reserve into a 21st‑century, multi‑cultural society of roughly 340 million people.

The Native Americans' first encounters with pesky tourists and interlopers came in the 1500s — beginning with Ponce de León in 1513, followed by Tristán de Luna y Arellano near Pensacola in 1559, and Pedro Menéndez de Avilés at St. Augustine in 1565. From that moment the encounters and friction increased.  As an American with long genealogical roots into its history, I have several ancestors that were both affected by the friction and contributors to that friction.

One of the earliest was Peter Montague. Peter arrived in Virginia in 1621, just months before the GoodFriday (1622) Powhatan Massacre, led by Opechancanough of the Powhatan Confederacy, and he survived that colony‑shaking attack as a young servant at the newly established plantations along the James River. His later life as a planter, burgess, and landowner unfolded in the long shadow of that event, which shaped the colony’s defensive posture, settlement patterns, and attitudes toward Native peoples for decades.

My earliest ancestor in the colonies with my surname, Francis McCown, was present at the 1742 Massacre of Balcony Downs, (aka Battle of Galudoghson) one of the earliest settler‑Indian confrontations on the Shenandoah–Augusta frontier. As an early settler of the Borden Tract, he experienced the tense early decades where Scotch‑Irish pioneers lived amid recurring conflict with Native groups.

Francis' son and my fourth great-grandfather, Malcolm McCown, was so affected by those events and especially the Kerr's Creek Massacre that he spent much of his energy in his early years fighting against Native Americans. In one such event he was one of the presumed perpetrators of the murder of Shawnee Chief Cornstalk.

A seventh great grandfather, James Caudy, was a frontiersman of the Cacapon Valley whose local legend centers on the Caudy’s Castle incident, where he is said to have fought off Native attackers by pushing them from a narrow ledge above the river. 

James Ward, who is thought to be one of my sixth great grandfathers, died at the Battle of Point Pleasant, where a clash between Native Americans and Virginia Militia erupted at the forks of the Kanawha and Ohio Rivers. Tragically, James' son, John had been captured by the Shawnee as a toddler and raised among them - so that day, he fought against his father, neither of them knowing this.

Other great grandfathers participated in actions against native populations as part of a State militia or US military.  A couple of these include Andrew Walker who engaged in actions against the Cherokee and Ephraim Bates who was engaged in the 1778 Brodhead-McIntosh expedition into Deleware Territory.

Our Nation handled the friction with the Native populations badly overall. The problems were fueled by ignorance, greed, and bad personal experiences on both sides of the battle lines. I suppose that can be said of any clash of cultures throughout history. 

 

Genealogy - A Crooked Crew

Crooked Little House built in 1395 

Lavenham, Suffolk, England

There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,

He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

That little nursery rhyme was told to me as a child. The true origin of it is unknown, but at least one of the possible sources comes from the town of Lavenham, England.

I visited there once in the middle 1990s while in England on a work-related trip. The photos don't really capture the extent or prevalence of the leaning buildings - but there are several of them. So, how did they get that way?

It turns out they were in a hurry to build, because the town was growing very fast with a booming wool trade. Th economy took off in the region in the 14th and 15th Centuries. They used oak timbers for the structures. They filled between timbers using daub (clay, sand, straw, dung, and water). The timbers were green.  So, as everything dried over time, the entire structure bent and warped creating a comically crooked community.

I stumbled upon a memory of this event while reviewing some genealogy. 

I limit my personal genealogy work and research to the U.S. or the American Colonies after about 1700 - because I know how to navigate Court and Census Records with reasonable confidence. However, I have connected my researched ancestors to people others have researched and put on Wikitree. This has resulted in what I like to call "deep genealogy."

(It is important to note, though, the deeper in genealogy you go, the less confidence you have. Clerical errors, researchers' assumptions, and ancestral infidelity takes a toll on the accuracy.)

Nonetheless, because of this deep genealogy - I have discovered four ancestors that were living in Lavenham in the sixteenth century.  They would have seen the same leaning houses I was tilting my head.

Their names were: John Fuller and his wife, Elizabeth Cole.  John and Elizabeth came to Middlesex, Massachusetts before 1647 when their second child was born. 

John came to own over a thousand acres in the region of Newton, Massachusetts growing crops as well as supplying malt for the production of beer.

John and Elizabeth are theoretically my 8th Great Grandparents. They share that spot with 1,022 other 8th Great Grandparents. A few of whom are identified, but most of whom are a complete mystery to me. Others, like Catherine Brew (whose name also suggests some connection to Malt or Hops) appears as my 8th Great Grandparent twice. 

Knowing who these possible ancestors were, how and where they lived, and what they may have done can be fun. Experiencing a place they would have known gives the experience of the place some personal connection - even if the way I experience it is completely different than their experiences.

For more on John Fuller see:  https://johnfullerofnewton.com/